


Ravens, Writing Desks

by Moorishflower



Series: The Trickster Saga [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude in which the frustrated optical-coitus of Dean and Castiel is finally resolved, and Sam doesn't get any sleep. Takes place between chapters 4 and 5 of The Surprising Adventures of Sun Wukong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravens, Writing Desks

  
The first thing that Dean does is spring for a hotel that's a good deal cleaner and more comfortable than where they usually end up staying – he and Sam have fought demons before, of course, and that never warranted any big spending, but this is a special occasion. They've got one relic left, just one, and even though Gabriel and Castiel are being suspiciously quiet about it, Dean's sure that they'll be able to retrieve it, come hell or high water. They don't really have a choice, after all.

Castiel rides with them in the car, while Gabriel prefers to fly or teleport or whatever the fuck it is that he does. Sam looks a little bit put out by that, but Dean's too busy studying Castiel's expression out of the corner of his eye to notice.

Cas looks _intense_. Dean's tempted to say he looks angry, except there's a melancholy at the corners of his eyes, in the soft downturn of his mouth, and Dean isn't sure what caused it, or how to get rid of it. Because he's all but said that he's planning on giving this thing was Cas a try. That he's willing to try and make it work beyond a few days, or a few weeks. Dean doesn't make out with just _anyone_ in front of his brother, after all.

They pull into the Holiday Inn parking lot, and Dean sends Sam in to procure a room. Sam pulls a face, but maybe he recognizes something in the shape of Dean's shoulders – something that says 'we need to talk.' He gets out of the car without complaint, which leaves Dean alone.

With Castiel.

Dean turns around, craning his neck to look at Castiel, sitting huddled and tense in the back seat. His lips are pursed, like he's getting ready for someone to start yelling at him. Except Dean doesn't understand _why_. What possible reason is there for him to be angry with Cas? It wasn't like the angels could even get inside the diner – the banishing sigils had made it impossible right up until Gabriel had _knocked the fucking walls down_, and by then they had already killed the majority of the demons.

_What the fuck,_ Dean thinks, because when he signed up to fall in with Cas (_to fall in love with_), he sure as hell didn't sign up for more cryptic angel bullshit.

"All right," he says. "Talk to me."

Cas, if anything, seems to shrink further back into the seat.

"You did not hear me," Castiel says softly. "I called to you, and you did not answer."

"Well, yeah," Dean says. "I mean, I heard you shouting through the glass, but I was kinda busy. You know. _Killing demons_."

Castiel tilts his head to the side. "That is…not what I meant."

"Well, then _what_, Cas? Because the whole silent treatment thing? Right after I kissed you? _Not cool_. Have I done something wrong? Because I was under the impression that you _wanted_ us to be…closer. That you still wanted me."

"I do," Castiel says, simple, and so raw that it blows whatever insecurity Dean might have been feeling right out of the water.

Which means that now he's just confused. And rapidly approaching 'pissed off,' because Cas just isn't _telling_ him something, and if there's one thing that Dean despises it's being left out of the loop.

"Then _what_, Cas," he snaps (harsher, louder than he intended). "What's the problem?"

Castiel stares at him.

"I reached out with my Grace," he says slowly. "I called to you, to the mark that I have made upon your soul, and you did not answer. You never heard at all."

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. _Mark upon his soul,_ Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Fuck, was it…was it like how Sam sometimes talked about Gabriel? About the archangel touching something in him that no human could ever reach?

"Cas," he tries, "what the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

And Cas looks…not _caught_, exactly, but like he'd really rather not say something, and that only makes Dean even more suspicious and pissed off, because of course he'd been stupid enough to think that they were _past_ keeping secrets. He'd been laboring under the misapprehension that Castiel trusted him enough to tell him the important stuff.

Not so much, apparently.

"Fine," Dean says, hating the fact that he sounds like a jealous girlfriend, hating it with the fire of a thousand angry goddamn _suns_. "Awesome. You don't want to tell me? Then don't bother following me to the room, asshole, because we are _done_ if you think you can get away with not telling me the truth."

Dean opens the car door, slides halfway out of the seat, and then hears Cas say (almost _whisper_), "We are partially bonded."

Dean settles back into the driver's seat without even realizing it.

"Partially bonded," he repeats faintly. "Like…Bonded like _how_, Cas? Like just…dating? Being married? Did we accidentally perform some freaky angel ritual?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in the back seat.

"Cas," he tries, and just barely manages to keep the anger and seething disappointment out of his voice. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Castiel's face is so stony that Dean's worried that it's just going to crack, straight through the middle. After a long moment of silence (_too long,_ Dean thinks), Castiel's shoulders slump, and he refuses to look Dean in the eye.

"I did not wish for it to interfere with the mission," he says softly.

And then he disappears. Dean is left alone in the Impala, feeling as if he's missing something. Something huge.

_What the fuck,_ Dean thinks. _Oh my god, what the fuck._

~

Dean buys himself a sandwich from the deli down the street. Sandwiches never lie to you and sandwiches never disappear at random, leaving you sitting in a Holiday Inn parking lot thinking about your _intentions_. Because, seriously, does he _want_ to spend the rest of his life with Cas? And even just _thinking_ that sentence makes him feel like a gigantic fucking girl, but it's…it's a valid question.

Because it's deadly serious, this whole 'bonding' thing. He'd overheard Sam and Gabriel talking about it earlier (the doors and walls here are thinner than Dean likes, but at least it's come in handy), and maybe it's like marriage, and maybe it's like…like _giving_ yourself to someone, like exchanging property, but all Dean can think about is that it means _for life_. That he'll have Castiel, and Cas will have him, for as long as Dean lives. And…and what happens when Dean dies? Does that arrangement transfer over to Heaven? What if Dean ends up heading back downstairs, instead?

Won't Cas get bored of him?

He kicks open the room door and throws the turkey sandwich he bought in the vague direction of Sam's gigantic head. Sam catches it without even looking up, years of training and being chased by monsters coming into play. For an instant, Dean is unspeakably, unbelievably proud of his little brother. Then he drops down onto his own bed, unwraps his pastrami sandwich, and starts stuffing his face.

Yeah, he's eating his pain. _Fuck you_.

They manage to sit in slightly tense, though no less companionable, silence for maybe five minutes. Dean devours his pastrami. He's definitely had better, but it's okay, as far as deli sandwiches go. Sam takes delicate, ladylike bites out of his turkey and rye. There's a smear of mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth. Dean doesn't mention it, because it's kind of funny.

"So," Sam says, _out of nowhere_. "This thing with Cas."

Dean glares at him. He slowly lowers his sandwich, chewing quickly so that he can swallow his mouthful of bread and meat. Sam looks stupidly, infuriatingly calm.

"Gabriel explained it to me."

Dean glares harder. "Aw, Samantha, are you and your boyfriend talking about me behind my back? 'Cause that is not cool."

Sam wipes the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth, probably to hide the fact that he's blushing, just a little. "Gabriel isn't my boyfriend," he says, but Dean knows that's a lie. Sam is in almost the exact same boat that _he_ is, except _his_ angel is at least being totally truthful. Well, as truthful as Gabriel gets, anyways.

Dean watches Sam reach across the bed, snagging the little copper snake – the Nehushtan, he should try harder to remember that – from his nightstand. He curves his palms around it, holds it close, and then slips it over one gigantic hand. The metal never once has to bend, and it clings to Sam's wrist like it was welded there. Dean thinks of the Spear, still in the trunk of the Impala, and wonders if _this_ is their fate. Not to be meatsuits for a couple of dick angels, but to _fight_. Four relics for four people…and Dean sure as hell can't touch that stupid snake. He'd burned himself the minute he tried.

He imagines that Sam probably can't use the Spear, either. Not as well as Dean.

"He told me that Castiel's been interested in you," Sam continues. "Since before he even met you."

Interested. Yeah, _that's_ a good word. Dean doesn't know all the details, but he's pretty sure that dedicating forty years of your life (even your generally unchanging, immortal life) towards pulling a guy out of Hell counts towards having at least _some_ kind of investment in the whole affair.

Which means that Castiel was _hoping_ for this. That he would somehow end up with Dean. That they'd be more than just…soldiers fighting the same war.

"Out of all the angels sent to pull you from Hell, Castiel was the one who decided that _he_ was going to save you," Sam murmurs. "That the mark he left was basically a promise to you. Like…swearing loyalty, or something. I don't know how to explain it. It's like…"

Dean tries to ignore the way that his ribcage feels lighter. The small, smoldering feeling of something _there_. Something so small that he can't even be blamed for not noticing it before.

"It's like you get it," Dean sighs. "Like you understand it, but you can't really explain how."

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

The softly flaring thing in Dean's chest quiets, retreats backwards. Is this what Sam feels _all the time_? This bizarre _awareness_? Only stronger, he imagines. More accurate. Whatever it is that Castiel has started between them, it's just a thread, barely enough to connect them. Apparently not enough to allow Castiel to be heard through several layers of banishing sigils.

Sam is starting to look morose. And Dean is still angry, but it's the sort of anger that he can get over. Because Cas is an idiot, and maybe he thought he was doing Dean a favor. It's the only way Dean will be able to keep himself from punching the guy.

He picks off a corner of his sandwich, rolls the bread between his fingers until it's packed into a tight little ball, and then flings it at Sam's stupid, floppy hair. He misses, hits Sam in the cheek instead, but it still earns him a satisfyingly girly scream.

"Dude!" Sam yelps, and bats ineffectually at himself until the bread is flung to the floor. Dean can't help but grin at that. It's almost like old times, except now they have the fate of the world resting on their shoulders.

Hoo-fucking-ray.

"I'm still pissed," Dean admits quietly. He can feel some of his smile dissipating, but not all of it. He's surprised to realize that he isn't nearly as pissed as he thought he was. "So don't go picking out matching tie pins or whatever. All this time, and he's never told me…what he did. And he chooses _now_ to try and explain it, and you know what he said? He said he didn't want it to 'interfere with the mission.' Like it's gonna change _shit_ as far as the relics are concerned. I mean, this gives me the right to make out with him in public, right?"

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Gross," he protests, but he's still kinda grinning, so Dean guesses that Sam doesn't mind, or doesn't care.

"It's just that he didn't tell me," Dean repeats. "And now apparently I'm gonna, what, _sense_ him? Fucking bizarre."

"It's weird," Sam agrees. "Feeling them."

Dean picks at the remainder of his sandwich, but can't bring himself to eat the rest of it. "Yeah, well. It figures that we both end up in the same Heavenly matrimony boat, huh? Always copying me, Sammy."

Sam makes an unattractive noise, low in his throat, sort of a cough, or a snort. Dean doesn't call him on it.

"Honestly," he says quietly, "I'm just…tired. I'm too tired to stay angry about it. But it's still…weird. And I'm not fuckin' apologizing for yelling."

_Liar,_ his brain whispers. _You'll apologize the moment you kiss him. With your hands. Your mouth. Your eyes._

And yeah, okay, maybe that's the case, but it still doesn't give Sam the right to look at Dean like he's some sort of lost puppy that needs to be taken in.

Dean throws a pillow at him, and Sam just laughs.

But then he has to go and retrieve it later, so maybe that's Sam's subtle way of getting revenge.

~

Finding Castiel becomes the next problem.

Dean hasn't seen him since Cas disappeared from the Impala, and Sam is mute on the subject – apparently, even Gabriel hasn't been hanging around. Not since Dean overheard them talking, anyways. Sam says that he thinks Gabriel won't come back until Dean has 'made up' with Castiel.

Which is a stupid idea, but then, Gabriel's the sort of being who would totally be capricious like that for absolutely no solid reason, so Dean shouldn't put it past him.

He spends their second day at the Holiday Inn trying to figure out ways to…it isn't apologizing, not really. But to tell Cas that it's all right. That Dean is cool with this, the idea of his _whole life_ with Castiel. Maybe it's a little intimidating, but he's sure that the weird, half-panicked feeling in his stomach will settle down after a while.

And, bizarrely, he wants to feel more of that glow in his chest. That vague _awareness_ of Cas. He thinks that, if they do this, if Cas finishes the 'bond,' that it'll get stronger.

"Just _call him_," Sam bitches, except it isn't that easy. For one, there's no guarantee that Cas will answer – his phone skills are shaky at best. And for another, there's the issue of Sam himself.

Specifically, the fact that all he does is mope around the room, being totally unhelpful.

Dean deliberately refuses to go out and procure dinner for them. He isn't hungry (the fluttering in his stomach makes the idea of food seem horrible, and how bad is _that_, that he's so nervous he doesn't feel like eating?), but if Sam doesn't have his daily low-carb chef salad (or whatever the fuck it is he eats) he goes a little stir-crazy.

As far as plans go, it's one of Dean's more successful ones. Sam manages to last for a half hour before he sighs heavily, gets up from his bed, grabs his wallet, and leaves. He's probably going down to the corner store to buy himself a cup of soup or something. Dean doesn't care. He quickly grabs a clean sock from his duffle, hangs it on the doorknob, and then closes the door behind him.

Sam will respect the sock. He _has_ to. The last time Sam ignored the sock, he walked in on Dean and a waitress from Bar Harbor, and that had just ended awkwardly for everyone.

Dean's almost certain that the only thing that will be happening tonight is yelling, and possibly some frantic making out against a wall, but being prepared for any scenario is important.

Dean pulls out his cell phone, considers it for a moment. _Just call him_. He has Castiel's number listed right at the top, right below Sam's. All he has to do is move his thumb down, hit the 'call' button. And then he can ask Castiel to…what, come back? Forgive him? 'Sorry I got angry at you for _branding my soul_?' Dean has a right to be angry.

But he doesn't want to be.

He hits the 'call' button.

It takes Cas a stupidly long time to actually answer the phone, though Dean doesn't know if that's due to general ignorance regarding electronics or else Castiel's disappointment in _him_. For the first time, Dean hopes that it's the former.

"Dean," Castiel rumbles into the receiver, and maybe Dean's knees go a little weak. _Maybe_. It's just because Cas has that whole 'Batman voice' going on, and something about it is intensely…sensual. _Sexy_.

It occurs to Dean that he hasn't slept with anyone - _no one at all_ \- since this whole Biblical scavenger hunt business started. And that? That is just _sad_.

"You need to get your ass over here right now," Dean growls into the phone. Castiel makes a vague, half-swallowed sound, something small and maybe a little startled, and then he hangs up.

Shit. Maybe Dean overdid it.

Except the next minute, Castiel appears right in front of him (and he means _right_ in front), still holding his phone to his ear, lips slightly parted. It's a familiar scene, and Dean hangs up and pockets his phone, shoving down the brief flare of _happiness_ that spreads somewhere behind his ribcage. Castiel mimics him, stuffs his phone into one of the deep pockets of his trench coat.

It's painfully obvious that Cas is _sensing_ something, or feeling it, because he has his head cocked, as if he's listening to some distant sound. Dean's not sure what he's supposed to say. He's already ruled out just about every form of 'I apologize' he could think of, because he doesn't really want to _apologize_ for anything. He had every right to be freaked out.

And now he's over it (well, mostly), and he's just not sure how to communicate that.

Fuck. This has always been Sam's area, not Dean's.

"You…called," Castiel says, and Dean gets the feeling that he doesn't mean 'on the phone.'

"Yeah," he says, and for a long, silent minute it's…awkward. What's he supposed to do? Chastise Cas for never telling him about this 'bond' in the first place? He's already done that, basically, and besides, it seems to be an angel thing, rather than a Castiel thing, the whole 'not telling people important info' shtick.

Luckily, Castiel breaks the silence first.

"You called, and I _heard_ you," he says, and yeah, definitely not talking about the phone. Dean's pretty sure that they're talking about their mystical soul bond.

Holy shit, his life's become a Twilight novel. That is just _sad_.

It isn't really possible for Castiel to hover any closer than he already is, but Dean's pretty sure that he would if he could. The angel still has his head cocked, but all his attention is trained on Dean.

Dean, who scuffs the toe of his boot against the carpet and then says, "Uh. So. This 'bond' thing."

"Yes," Castiel agrees simply. Acknowledging that it exists.

"I'm not apologizing for yelling at you," Dean says fiercely. "You deserved it."

Castiel blinks slowly.

"But…but I'm thinking that, you know, it's _weird_, but it's…sort of like what Sam has with Gabriel, right?"

"Gabriel has been more forthright in his intentions. He never hesitated to mark Samuel as his own."

Dean huffs. "Okay, number one, _creepy_, don't need to hear about my brother's love life, and number two…does that mean you did? Hesitated, I mean."

Castiel pauses, and then, slowly, nods his head. Something in Dean's chest clenches tightly, like a fist. "It was not due to reluctance on my own part," he says. Maybe Dean's expression wasn't as neutral as he'd thought it was. "But out of concern for you. When I pulled you from Hell, you were…tattered. Weak. You would not have been able to withstand a bond, even if you had agreed to it. And so I healed you. Rebuilt your body, and strengthened your soul with threads of my own Grace. Had I realized that my desire for a bond would be enough to initiate the process…"

_Oh,_ Dean thinks vaguely. _It was a mistake._

Which…hurts more than it should, really. Cas has always tried to tell him that he's worth more than he thinks, that he's…that he hasn't been tainted by his time in Hell. But Dean knows better, and this is just another example of that. Cas wanted him, and then he saw how _broken_ Dean was (_still is_), and everything after that had just been a mistake.

It figures.

"Dean," Castiel says softly. "I do not regret what has happened. Had you been strong enough to bear the full weight of my mark, I would have made the suggestion as soon as you were capable of answering. But circumstances rarely meet our expectations, and so I was unable to complete the bond. But, I have never regretted the path we have taken. I admit that I have been...reluctant. I did not want to see you hurt."

Which explains why Cas hasn't exactly been trying to jump his bones. Why Dean had been the one who had needed to make the first move. The first _couple_ moves.

"Still kind of caught in the whole 'you never told me' part," Dean says, and Castiel looks…vaguely ashamed.

"I feared that you would reject the bond." _And me,_ is the unspoken end to that sentence. His voice is too small, too soft. Dean finds himself grabbing Castiel's wrist before he can stop himself, pulling the angel closer.

_This is not a hug,_ he thinks. _This is an expression of manly concern._

Except then Castiel's arms come up, locking around Dean's chest, and yeah, they're totally hugging.

Castiel shifts, and his hand finds Dean's arm, closes against the mark there, and Dean stiffens. Even through his shirt and jacket, that's…fuck. That's _intense_. Like standing too close to a live wire. Dean's half convinced that he can smell ozone, the bright, sharp, clean scent before a thunderstorm.

"So it wasn't a mistake," he says, just to make sure, and Castiel shakes his head. His grip tightens, and then loosens, seemingly at random, until Dean realizes that Cas is following the rhythm of Dean's heart, soft and then strong again, a steady pulse.

"Okay. Just making sure." He's still…worried. His soul was probably never in very good condition to begin with, and the way Cas describes it, he basically needed a complete overhaul. But Cas is _here_. Cas has given up so much of his Grace for Dean, has _died_ for him, that it's incredibly hard not to take him seriously.

So Dean throws caution to the wind, tilts Castiel's head back, and then kisses him. It's exactly the same as it was before, warm and wet and a little bit shocked – Castiel doesn't seem to know where to put his hands, and they shift, moving from Dean's arm, to his sides, to his shoulders, and then back again. And, like before, he doesn't seem entirely sure how things are supposed to proceed – Dean's been valiantly attempting to teach Cas the fine art of making out, but so far it's sort of like trying to teach a cat how to walk a tightrope. Kissing him isn't _bad_, and there's no lack of enthusiasm, but Cas always seems worried that he's going to do something wrong.

"Hey," he murmurs against Castiel's lips, "Hey, if you want, we can just…we can just lie down. We don't have to do anything." Despite the fact that kissing Cas gives him an erection that could destroy a table. _Every time_. Dean's nothing if not willing to take it slow, even if it means that he's going to be jerking off a lot more in the future.

But Cas breaks away, lips swollen and pink and _holy shit, sexy_, shaking his head again.

"No," he says, voice gone raspier than normal, and it sends a shiver of _want_ down Dean's spine. "I am done waiting. If it is agreeable to you, I would like to complete the bond."

And Dean's pretty sure that Cas is saying 'complete the bond,' not 'let's fuck like wild animals,' but his dick doesn't seem to care, because he goes from 'interested, but also concerned about Castiel's intentions' to 'you heard the angel, let's get boning' in about two seconds flat.

"Cas," he says cautiously, "are you sure?" Which is sort of hilarious, because _Dean's_ the one who should be unsure. He should be running, screaming, for the hills, because Dean Winchester has never been very good at commitment, and this is basically going to tie him to Castiel forever. You can't really get any more committed than that. Except when Castiel gives him that look, that 'I adore you so much that your shortcomings mean exactly nothing to me' sort of look, Dean's chest locks up tight and he forgets that he's supposed to be afraid.

"I am sure, Dean," Castiel says softly, and then he rocks up and they're kissing again, except Castiel's hands fall on Dean's shoulders and Castiel's mouth moves like he knows what he wants, and he's pushing Dean back towards the bed even as Dean is dimly aware of the muffled sound of exasperated swearing out in the hallway.

_I guess Sam noticed the sock,_ he thinks vaguely, and then Castiel _pushes him down onto the bed_, and Dean abruptly stops thinking about anything other than his desperate and focused desire to get his clothes _off_.

"Pretty sure I didn't teach you any of this," Dean manages, breaking his own dumbfounded silence as Castiel's fingers dive towards his fly. They fumble for a moment, but for a guy who a couple weeks ago didn't know what a blowjob was ("Oh. You are referring to fellatio."), he's gotten pretty quick on the update. Cas pops the button and draws down the zip before kneeling on the bed between Dean's spread legs, glancing up at him through halfway-lowered lashes.

"I have existed for many, many years, Dean," he says softly. "I am aware of how men engage in coitus with each other."

"You asked Gabriel, didn't you."

Castiel glances away.

"I may have…sought Gabriel's advice, in certain matters," he mumbles.

Dean can't really say anything about that, though, because the next thing that Cas does is to wriggle his hand between denim and cotton boxers in order to cup Dean's balls, rolling them with a sort of inexpert enthusiasm. It's way hotter than it should be, and Dean's mouth opens around a groan and his spine arches up off the bed.

"Okay," he gasps. "You are wearing _way_ too many clothes." And so is he, for that matter. Dean halfheartedly bats Castiel's hand away from his crotch, and then struggles to kick his boots off, to shuck his jeans over his hips. Cas just watches him for a moment with an odd, distantly confused expression, his head tilted ever so slightly to the right.

"Clothes," Dean prompts again, and Castiel _shivers_, and then gingerly begins to follow Dean's example, letting his trench coat slip from his shoulders to puddle on the floor, then plucking at the knot of his tie, loosening it. Dean reaches up to help, because he's pretty sure Cas has _never_ taken his clothes off before, never mind that Jimmy's flown the coop and this body is _his_, now. He deftly unknots the tie from around Castiel's neck, lets it go the way of the coat, and then sets to work unbuttoning the dress shirt, still clean and whole, like new. Dean makes a soft noise – he thinks that, if Cas conserved his energy, rather than using it to mend clothes that don't even matter anymore, he'd spend his days feeling a lot less tired.

"We're gonna get you some new clothes," Dean murmurs; he shushes Castiel's mild sound of protest. "No, trust me, we'll get some new clothes, stuff that you don't have to worry about it getting all ripped up." He bows his head, presses a kiss to the curve of Castiel's bared shoulder.

"Dean," Cas says, urgent and soft, and Dean slips his shirt all the way off, lets it fall and get lost amongst the sheets. He wants to ask Castiel about the questions he must have asked, how Gabriel reacted, and how he decided to answer.

Dean pictures Castiel watching porn, researching it with the same intensity he studies everything else, and he has to seal his lips against Castiel's shoulder, sucking a mark into the pale skin, in order to keep from moaning. Cas makes a sound like someone's just punched him in the gut, helpless and breathy. For all that he's apparently been doing his research, he doesn't seem to know how to handle the fact that Dean is used to being in control. Like it's something he hadn't planned for.

And, as awesome as it is to hear Castiel making those gasping, half-shamed noises, Dean wants him to be…comfortable, with what he's doing. Because even if one half of the equation has slept with most things that walk on two legs (and if there was a Boy Scout badge for that, Dean would totally have earned it _years_ ago), it doesn't mean shit if the other person isn't totally at ease with what's going on. And Cas is enjoying this, obviously likes the way that Dean is popping the button on his slacks and drawing the zipper down, shoving his trousers out of the way, but he's also _tense_. Like he isn't sure what's coming next. Dean thinks that Cas – that _most_ angels – are used to being in control, and that, when you take that control away, they start to freak out a little bit.

So Dean leans back, and pulls Cas on top of him.

Castiel makes another noise, vaguely confused this time. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, bunch Dean's shirt up around the bottom of his ribcage, fingers splaying across his stomach.

"Dean?"

"You're the one who's been doing research," Dean says, holding in a laugh at Castiel's dumbfounded expression. "So show me what you've learned."

Cas huffs, glancing first at his own bare chest, his disheveled slacks (which are rapidly becoming tangled around his knees), then at the long stretch of Dean's legs, the tented front of his boxers, the shirt that's shoved up around his torso.

Castiel is wearing briefs – and that's sexier than it has any right to be, really.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean wheedles, never mind that he feels like he's going to _burst_ if he doesn't get some contact soon. Castiel blinks down at him, and then seems to come to a decision – he doesn't hesitate to pull his slacks the rest of the way off, and then he tugs at the edge of Dean's shirt, stripping it over his head while Dean lies there and tries to think of all the different things Gabriel (or, God, the _internet_) might have informed him of.

He _really_ hopes Castiel hasn't discovered fanfiction yet, because explaining _that_ is going to be _intensely_ awkward.

But Cas seems perfectly content to just _look_, for the moment, with Dean beginning to squirm impatiently underneath his gaze. He seems content to drag his fingertips lazily down the bumps of Dean's ribcage, over the softness of his belly, ruffling the trail of hair that runs down into his boxers. Dean can't keep himself from shivering – there's an aching flare of _want_ smoldering somewhere in his chest, a sense that goes beyond just physical desire. He wants Cas to push past his skin and grip his insides, wants to feel not-there hands cradling his tattered, ill-treated soul in their palms.

"C'mon," he mutters faintly, as Cas skims his fingertips just under the band of his boxers. "_C'mon_."

"I have learned that sometimes the anticipation of a thing is greater than the thing itself," Castiel says slowly, but when Dean lifts his hips he obediently hooks his fingers into the elastic band, draws Dean's boxers down until his dick springs up and slaps against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precome.

And Cas _studies_ him. Dean's skin itches underneath the intense scrutiny, and it only lets up when Cas gently cups Dean's hip with one hand, and then leans down to brush feather-light kisses across his stomach.

"I often forget how beautiful the human body is," he says, _conversationally_, like the soft tease of his breath against the head of Dean's cock isn't really, _really_ distracting. "And yours, in particular. Even before I knew what it was to desire, I found your form appealing."

Cas trails the fingertips of his free hand down the length of Dean's cock, slow and gentle, collecting beads of precome and smearing them across his blood-dark skin. Dean bites his bottom lip, lifts his hips up in a wordless plea for more. It sure as hell isn't like any dirty talk that Dean's ever heard, but Castiel's voice wraps around him, almost like it has _weight_, and he thinks he can feel, distantly, that Cas _likes_ this. Likes telling Dean how beautiful and strong and stubborn he is.

The bond isn't even _finished_, yet, isn't even fully _there_, and Dean already knows that Cas has never allowed himself to _want_ before. He's been chastised for considering it, and he's been _forced_ to, by Famine…but this is the first time that Cas has looked at something and thought 'I desire' rather than 'I am commanded.'

Dean grunts when Castiel noses at the base of his cock, no teeth or tongue, just warm, damp breath, and Dean is all for anticipation, but _he_ wants, too, and he's sort of amused by the look of surprise on Castiel's face when he grabs the angels shoulders and drags him up and up, close enough to kiss, his mouth pink and wet and open, just begging for Dean to run his tongue across the bright white line of teeth, the roof of Castiel's mouth, the softness of his lips.

"Alright," Dean pants, unable to keep himself from grinding against Castiel, the soft cotton of his briefs a strange and not unpleasant counterpoint to the dark, scratchy hair on his thighs. "I have a better idea. _Way_ better. Trust me."

"I have always trusted you," Castiel murmurs. "Even when I thought that you were wrong, I trusted you."

And, Jesus Christ, what are you supposed to _say_ to something like that? All Dean can think to do is swallow, _hard_, and then roll Castiel onto his back. It'll be easier, that way (at least, for Cas it will), and Dean hasn't done this in a long, _long_ time, but he's still the more experienced one here. This will give Castiel a measure of that control he seems to be so lost without, and they both get to enjoy the benefits. It's a win-win situation, as far as Dean is concerned.

"Let's get these off," he breathes, curls his fingers into the band of Castiel's briefs and then pulls them down and down and down, bunching them up with Castiel's slacks, having to pause in order to pull off the smart, lightly scuffed dress shoes before he can do anything else. And then Cas is naked, _beautifully_ so, and Dean doesn't normally apply that word to guys (he thinks the only reason he doesn't mind Cas calling _him_ beautiful is because he's an angel, and he thinks that 'beauty' is a different concept entirely, for them).

Castiel is pale all over, and he's entirely lean muscle, except for where he's soft, and slightly curved - his flat stomach is a sharp contrast to the jut of his hipbones, to the thick curve of his dick. He's flushed from his throat all the way down to his chest, and Dean can't help it - he's down here already, and it's not like he isn't planning to get up close and personal anyways. He holds Castiel's hips down, presses a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the shaft of Castiel's prick. Salt-sweat and the slightly bitter taste of precome, and the reaction is _immediate_. Castiel's mouth opens in a wide, astonished 'o,' of surprise or want, Dean isn't sure. What he _is_ sure of is that no one has ever touched Castiel like this, not ever. He can feel it thrumming through him, that knowledge, and when Castiel reaches down and fits his palm to the mark on Dean's shoulder, he can feel it twice as strong. Like...like listening to someone talking in a different room.

Fuck. This is what he's going to be experiencing _all the time_. Every waking hour of every single day. He's going to have to learn how to...to control it, or _something_, because otherwise he's gonna end up doing something stupid and getting killed.

"Dean," Castiel breathes, "Oh, _Dean_." Like his name is something sacred. Something to be cherished. Dean highly doubts that, but he gives the fat, flushed head of Castiel's cock a lick, because he wants to hear Castiel make _noise_, not just lie there, stunned and wrecked and _open_.

"This isn't what I had in mind," Dean says (laughs, really, because Castiel is disheveled and kind of ridiculous looking, but no less beautiful for that). Cas makes a low, rough sound, something that's been torn out of him. "It gets way better."

For the past few months, Dean's mostly been spending quality time with Mr. Righty, not for lack of prospects, but because this _thing_ between him and Castiel has been...hovering. So the low, tight coil of pleasure in his balls isn't really surprising. He could probably come just by _looking_ at Cas, but that's hardly how he wants the night to end. Because Cas tastes like salt and ozone and the faintest hint of blood, like he's seen so much of it that it's soaked down into his skin, and Dean really, _really_ wants to have that again.

"Don't move," he says, and Castiel makes a noise of protest, right up until Dean maneuvers himself around, swings his body until he's kneeling with his legs spread around Castiel's chest, his face buried in the angel's groin. Castiel's breath wafts hot, damp, across his balls, and Dean groans, lets his head drop for a second just so that he can get a hold of himself. He knows this isn't going to last very long, not with the shameful amount of celibacy he's been engaging in, but he thinks it would still be impolite to come on Castiel's face without at least warning him first.

"I do not understand," Castiel says faintly, and Dean chuckles against the angel's thigh, then pulls his head back up, holds Castiel's dick by the base so that he can rest his lips against the head.

"All your research, and you never came across mutual blowjobs?"

"I had assumed that you would want to be the aggressor," Castiel says, and that's...okay, Dean can understand how Castiel would think that, because it's been a long time and he doesn't do it often, but he can _totally_ see himself bottoming for Cas. Hell, Dean'll prove it to him - the next pharmacy they find, Dean's going to buy them a metric _ton_ of lube. He thinks Cas looks like a 'ridden hard and put away wet' kind of guy.

"Okay, first, assumptions are bad." Speaking causes his lips to rub in interesting ways against the crown of Castiel's dick – at least, Dean assumes it's interesting, considering that Cas is making these short, soft noises, sort of lost, like he isn't quite sure what to do. "They make an ass out of you and…well, mostly you. And second, I'm totally being the aggressor. Who's the one who came up with the idea of a sixty-nine, huh? Now, all you have to do is mimic _me_. It's pretty simple. So, if I do _this_ \- " Dean parts his lips, teasingly flicking his tongue over the slit, precome beading up, salty and faintly chemical in his mouth. " – then you do the same thing. If I do something you don't think you can do, don't worry about it, alright? You're awesome either way." God, he wishes he could see Castiel's face – the view he has is a nice one, but he wants to know how Cas feels about all of this. Then again, Castiel doesn't really do the whole 'wearing his heart on his sleeve' thing, so maybe Dean is better off just reading his body language…

Castiel's response is to circle his fingers around the base of Dean's cock, and then to _take one of Dean's balls into his mouth_. It's sloppy and uncoordinated and Dean is pretty sure it's the hottest thing _ever_, being able to glance between his spread legs and seeing Castiel's throat working, his lips shiny with spit.

"Or that works," Dean says faintly, and, because this is a give and take event, he goes to town.

It's been a while since Dean blew a guy – and that's not even counting his streak of celibacy. So he's a bit out of practice, but it's sort of like riding a bicycle (and yeah, he's perfectly aware of how that sounds, even in his head): once you master the techniques, it doesn't take much to recall them. Dean's pretty sure he's not gonna be deep-throating Castiel any time soon, but just about everything else is fair game. And Dean has _fun_, working out what breaks Castiel's concentration, what tiny spots drive him crazy – touching his hips while Dean has him in his mouth is a surefire way to get Castiel to stop whatever he's doing and moan Dean's name, and he's less keen on having his balls played with than Dean is, but introducing a brief scrape of teeth makes Cas _freeze_, like he's afraid he'll end up choking or something.

Castiel does his own exploring (so effectively, in fact, that Dean wonders if he didn't try and research _this_, too), moving from Dean's balls to the base of his cock, trying his hardest to fit all of Dean into his mouth at once, which totally isn't the point, but Cas seems to be enjoying himself, and there's no way in hell Dean is going to stop him. Because Castiel is inexperienced and curious and beautiful in ways that Dean, who can barely remember a time when he didn't know what a blowjob was, can hardly understand, and his mouth is warm and wet and everything that's _good_.

Obviously, it means that Dean has to step it up, because the pleasure is starting to concentrate at the base of his spine, like it's pooling there, and Dean's been waiting _so long_. He pulls back until just the head of Castiel's cock is resting on his tongue, jacking him while he presses his thumb alongside it – Dean's never quite been into the whole 'watching someone suck on their fingers' thing, but Castiel makes _the_ most decadent noise when he glances down and notices what Dean is doing, so he decides that maybe he should be a little more open-minded about it, in the future.

For now, though, he concentrates on getting his thumb and forefinger wet, and then pulling them from his mouth with a soft _pop_ and trailing them back behind Castiel's balls, pressing at his perineum with wet fingers. Castiel might have done his research, but unless he's been experimenting with himself (a mental image that has Dean moaning around Castiel's dick, because holy _shit_, that's hot), he has no way of telling whether he'd actually _enjoy_ getting fucked.

Fortunately, Castiel's reaction to even the lightest touch could probably be called 'explosive,' or, at the very least, _intense_. His spine stiffens, a muffled sob working its way from the angel's throat as Dean experimentally strokes his thumb along that soft strip of skin – sensitive doesn't even begin to cover it, and a moment later Castiel's hips stutter up, whereas before he had been doing a remarkable job of keeping them still. The head of his cock nudges against the back of Dean's throat, and he has to pull off a little, in order to breathe.

Castiel, of course, chooses that moment to come.

He makes the most gorgeous noise that Dean's ever heard, a sobbing _growl_ of Dean's name as his hips pump up and up and Dean swallows as best he can, jizz spattering against his lips and chin and _Jesus_, he's going to look like the hottest mess in the world, except he can't really get upset over it because Castiel does exactly what Dean told him he didn't have to do: he sinks down as far as he can on Dean's cock and then _sucks_, and either Cas has done this before (on a banana or something, Dean hopes) or he's just a _really_ quick study, because he presses the tip of his tongue hard against the underside of Dean's cock, and touches two of his fingers to Dean's temple, and that's _it_. Dean's surprised by how good Castiel's timing is (or maybe just surprised by his own lack of stamina), and he's pretty sure he blacks out for a second as this intense wave of…_something_ rolls over him. It's huge and incomprehensible and _wonderful_, and Dean comes so hard he suspects he's losing brain matter.

There's no other explanation for what he sees, for what he _feels_: it's like looking into the heart of a hurricane, all incomprehensible sound and chaos and prismatic light. The smell of ozone is thick around him, and he doesn't experience his own feelings so much as he thinks he's experiencing _Castiel's_. There's so much fear, there, so much agony and regret and frustration, but there's this…unconditional _love_, too. For _Dean_.

For a brief instant, he's pretty sure he sees himself the way that Cas does: a bright pinprick of light in a world that's confusing at the best of times, maddening at the worst. Like a searchlight, or a comet.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds that he's collapsed heavily on top of Castiel, and that the come on his mouth and chin is going to start drying any minute now.

"_Fuck_," he says, and Castiel makes a vaguely appreciative noise as he…Jesus Christ, as he _licks Dean's cock clean_. The wet drag of Castiel's tongue is almost too much, but he doesn't have the strength, or the desire, to push him away. After a long moment, though, Dean reluctantly pushes himself up, swinging himself around until he can see Castiel's face.

"Your hair is fucking ridiculous," Dean says. And Castiel…smiles at him. Slowly, and sort of hesitantly, but it _is_ a smile.

"I can feel your contentment," Cas says after a moment. "It is…pleasing."

"Oh," Dean says faintly. Because _he_ can feel something, too. Something from Cas. It's nothing so simple as being 'content' – it's this huge ball of _feeling_, tangled and uncoordinated and entirely too difficult to unravel, but first and foremost is the sensation of…peace.

It's been so long since Dean felt at peace that he has absolutely no idea what to do with it.

"I'm just…" He gingerly slides off of Castiel, stretching his arms and arching his back. "I'm just gonna wash my face. I guess I'm just glad you didn't spunk in my hair." Something bright, almost like laughter. Dean points a finger at Castiel. "Don't you _dare_ think about doing that. There's nothing grosser than jizz in your hair."

That bright feeling – Castiel _laughing_ \- follows him all the way to the bathroom, and Dean can't help but smile with it.

~

Fortunately, Sam doesn't seem too pissed about the whole thing.

"So," Sam says, sitting on the bed across from Dean, holding a cup of coffee and half a poppyseed bagel in his hand. The hotel offers a free breakfast, which mostly consists of coffee, pastries, and half-ripe fruit, but any food is good food, in Dean's opinion. "You locked me out, last night."

"Mhm," Dean says. Then he takes a closer look at Sam. At what Sam is _wearing_. "There a reason why you're dressed for a blizzard, Sammy?"

Sam smirks over his cup of shitty coffee. "There a reason why you have jizz in your hair?"

"_Shit_," Dean says, and rubs at his hair while Sam brays unattractive horse-laughter at him. His fingers come away clean, no sign of dried semen at all. "Dude. Not funny."

"It's hilarious," Sam wheezes. "Oh man, the look on your face!"

Dean grabs at Sam's half a bagel, wresting it from his hand and defiantly taking a bite out of it while Sam makes quiet, 'I'm choking on my own laughter' sort of noises.

"You know what? You're riding in the _back_ today. And I'm gonna put my seat _all_ the way back. Bit harder to laugh when your legs are all cramped up."

"Worth it," Sam croaks. The door to the room eases open, and Gabriel pokes his head through, looking no more smug than usual, which surprises Dean, because he's pretty sure that Gabriel and Sam had some 'quality time' to themselves last night, too. Hey, if it had been him locked out of the room, he would have dragged Cas back to the Impala and just went to town there.

"What's all the fuss about? Dean spill coffee on himself or something?"

Sam breaks out into fresh laughter as Dean shoves himself up off the bed, breezing past Gabriel on his way out to the parking lot. He can just as easily eat his breakfast in the car, thanks.

"Dean."

He pauses, turning slightly. He'd been sort of _aware_ that Castiel was around, but he hadn't even noticed him, leaning against the wall beside Gabriel. He's still wearing his trench coat, his suit and tie, but something about him seems…softer. Dean wonders if that's because of him.

"Yeah?"

"May I…join you?"

Something that feels a lot like affection nudges at the edge of Dean's mind – sort of like pushing against a stretched piece of spandex. Like he can feel the indentation of it on his brain. He considers it for a moment, and then nods.

"Sure," he says softly. "Come on, Cas."

Castiel solemnly takes Dean's coffee from him, and, together, they head out to the parking lot.


End file.
